"The Great Equalizer"He and his tailor-made suit walked into a dealership in Scottsdale and drove away in a brand new Ferarri, candy apple red. It can go 220 mph, the dealer told him.Today he is stuck on the 202. To his right, an ’03 Ford Fiesta leads him by a nose. (appeared on fiftywordstories.com, Aug. 7)

"Just a Pinch"

My dentist's office is on the seventeenth floor. The Friday elevators strain under their human load, which in turn strains to endure the sheer mass of itself. I am in mid-center on this day, tactically the absolute worst location because I am surrounded by sweaty business flesh. Business flesh doesn't like to sweat, but does so nonetheless. There is not even a lunch runner among us, to help us forget ourselves for a few moments, awash in the smell of french fries. Hey! I've been pinched. In the butt, although I suppose that might be assumed. People are seldom pinched elsewhere. Yes, yes, it was most definitely a pinch, and not a misguided brush of the hand, as sometimes happens. There is a woman behind me, a sweet-looking brunette in one of those business jackets that is fitted at the waist and padded at the shoulders, enabling her to appear at once feminine and also a bit like a linebacker. I rather like brunettes. There is also a man behind me, a lean multi-earringed type. I wonder how far the woman is riding. Should I turn and acknowledge her overture? Surely she knows that I was pinched, that is to say knows that I know. I must have stiffened upon the point of pinching, or wriggled or cried out - something. Something witty would be appropriate here, a clever remark to let her know at once that I found her actions absolutely brazen, and yet not unwelcome. I should ask then if she is free for dinner - no, coffee, coffee is better. Less commitment. Timing is important here, too. I think it's already too late for a witticism. Perhaps I should return the pinch? No, that would be unseemly. What if it was really the long-haired guy? I'm not returning a masculine pinch. We must jockey our positions as a few people exit. I think for a moment that I have been pinched again, but it is only a mindlessly brushing backhand. She rides still. Perhaps this was not an overture at all, but an aggressive dominance maneuver. Perhaps she is a lower executive wishing to enjoy a bit of role reversal, and, emboldened by the anonymity of the crowd, has sexually harassed me. Do I feel sexually harassed? I am not certain. If I am being harassed, would responding to what I perceived as an overture constitute counter-harassment? In any event, I cannot know if I shirk from the opportunity to speak with her. Her guilt or innocence in this matter is really not an issue (though I know she did it) if I get to meet a really nice, not to mention attractive, person. The doors ding open. The time is nigh. "Excuse me. Pardon me, this is my floor." I am struck by a sudden attack of spinelessness. The scent of her perfume lingers after her, taunting me."The Spoon"

Our bedroom is filled with a diffused morning light, bathing the room in an otherworldly glow that is grounded only by the reassuring cooing of pigeons outside our window. But that’s not what woke me. My boy is hollering for me from the other end of the house. I’m snuggled in with Laurie, and wish only to lay still and enjoy the feeling of her body against my back, her fingers toying with the hair on my chest. We get so little of this now. But Derek is being a shit. He’s quite capable of getting out of his crib and walking to our room; he does it nearly every night around three a.m. Crawls in like he owns the place, and is there when I wake up around seven. If not at three, then now, when the early morning light (or the pigeons) wakes him, and he makes his daily trek. This morning, for some reason, he wants Daddy to come and carry him into our bed. I refuse. Today he has decided that he needs some extra show of servitude from his elders, but I won’t do it. I’m cozy and warm, and wish only for a quiet cuddle with my wife. He can come if he wants, but I won’t fetch him. “Daaddyyyy!” His call begins low, then crescendos down the hall like one of those old air raid sirens from the forties. “Go get your boy,” Laurie moans. She neither knows nor cares about my take on parental power struggles; she only knows that she can’t doze peaceably amid the racket he’s raising. My boy. I get up, irritated at his insistence, and pad blindly down the hall. An errant Lego bites my arch; I curse softly and continue limping toward his room. He is standing at the foot of his bed, peering over the railing with his bright morning face, wholly pleased at my appearance. I scoop him up roughly. He grips my shirt tightly and rides my hip to our bedroom. We crawl in, and I try to re-establish the spooning with Laurie by laying Derek on the outside. This is his regular spot; he has reserved for himself a “side” of our bed, and this is it. His face beams with glee. “Are you happy, Derek?” Laurie asks. “Did you get what you wanted?” He smiles broadly before answering. “Yes.” We are able to resume spooning, briefly, but already it isn’t the same. I’m now caught between my two great loves, laid comfortably enough against my wife, yet also trapped by a squirmy bundle in front of me, forced to lay my hands against my lap for protection from his little kicking feet. Laurie reaches across my body, but her caressing fingers now play through Derek’s hair rather than my own. She hopes to calm him down, and it does seem to help. For a time. But it is not quite enough; it never is with small children, and he begins to climb over me. “Behind Daddy,” he says, sticking a foot at my shoulder. “You want behind Momma?” I ask, hoping to distract him. He nods. “Okay, get behind Momma.” Laurie opens the covers to her back. He begins to comply, but then shakes his head. “Behind Daddy,” he repeats, and crawls on top of us, his bony knees piercing my ribs. He tries to wedge between us, to separate us, smiling all the while. He doesn’t know what our ultimate separation would mean to him. I reach up and swing him off, plopping him down again on his own side of the bed. His side of our bed. He launches another attempt. “He’s determined to get between us,” Laurie observes. He mounts us like Edmund Hillary. Those bony knees gouge my side, but I remain still, as though sleeping. There’s still the spoon, I tell myself, concentrate on the spoon. I reach up and peel him off again; he laughs. On the third offensive I steal a glance at his face; it beams with childish enthusiasm. “I’ve had enough,” Laurie announces, and concedes the rights to her side of the bed. Derek slides down beside me and throws an arm across my ribs. “It’s not worth the abuse to stay in bed,” she says. Laurie gets up to make coffee, and takes the spoon with her.